


blood and snow

by sweettasteofbitter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Mild Gore, Pre-Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 00:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweettasteofbitter/pseuds/sweettasteofbitter
Summary: Ore has a public secret that has always gone right over Hacha's head until they experience a fraught, painful moment together.





	blood and snow

**Author's Note:**

> These are two OCs my friend Skitch (hinterlands) and I made. These two are very dear to my heart and I decided to put up this ficlet because hey, why not?
> 
> Fic contains some mentions of canon-compliant injuries and alcohol use.

Hacha doesn’t notice the magic until the aftermath of a sloppy fight that leaves her favoring her right leg, and Ore with a deep gash in her crooked nose and the swagger of a drunken sailor. They haven’t been working together for long, but Ore is a good woman who makes Hacha feel at ease with her deadpan humor and her fanaticism for their cause.

Ore sheathes her sword clumsily and wipes the blood from her nose, lurching as she looks at the deep red stain on her hand. She winces and closes her eyes as she sways dizzily through the dim alleyway, her shoulder hugging the wall as she tries to maneuver around the dead bodies at their feet.

“Ore? Are you all right?” Hacha hides her daggers underneath her cloak as she drags her strained leg around the two victims of this encounter.

“I’m fine…” Ore takes two more steps in an attempt to convince Hacha, but then she collapses with her back against the wall.

“Hey now!” Hacha rushes to her side to the best of her ability. When sitting down, Ore is as tall as Hacha is when standing up, and  Hacha lifts her chin carefully to look Ore in the eye. “This might be a concussion, buddy.”

Ore groans. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Hacha looks over her shoulder. “I’m afraid of what will happen if we don’t make it out of here soon, though.”

“Bad shit, I can tell you that much,” Ore mumbles. “I’ll try to move.” She takes a deep breath and scrambles to her feet, her shoulder still scraping against the wall. They make it ten feet further down the alley before Ore’s legs give in again.

“This isn’t going to work,” Hacha says resolutely. “You need to stay put.”

“What about our noble friends over there?”

“Well, they’re dead. They’re not going to ring any alarms anytime soo- _AHHH_! _What is that?!_ ”

Hacha jerks. Something cold has touched her shoulder, and she squashes the thing with her hand.  When she touches it, it’s wet, and she recognizes the texture before it melts against her skin from the thick flakes that fell in the mountains when she left Orzammar.

It’s…snow.

Actual, real snow. On a clear, bright evening in the middle of the humid, sweltering summer of Cumberland.

 “What the fuck?” Hacha yells, when more snowflakes hit her head and shoulders, and land on Ore’s face as well, dissolving almost immediately against the heat of her skin. “What’s happening? Please tell me this is a prank. It’s a prank, isn’t it?”

Ore grins, a grotesque display because of her sharp teeth and the blood that drips down onto her lips and chin.

“It’s real snow. Sorry. My bad.”

“Your bad? What?” Hacha’s eyes widen. “I don’t understand.”

“You know,” Ore mumbles. “It’s my…my magic. This happens sometimes, when I’m hurt, or angry.”

Hacha takes a step back. She isn’t as much scared or revolted as she is surprised by this confession. If Ore is a mage, why has Hacha never noticed before? Is this something that happens? Can dwarves not recognize mages?

 “You have magic?”

Ore squints, her tongue thick and clumsy as though she has spend the entire evening drinking ale.

“Wait, you mean you didn’t realize?”

“No? Why should I have?”

Ore wipes the blood off her upper lip and points at the white dots there.  Hacha only now realizes these dots are scars. She had previously thought them to be tattoos, much like her own markings, a way to signify her background.

“You do know what the Qun does to mages, don’t you?”

“Ore,” Hacha says impatiently. “I don’t know a fucking thing about the Qun. I had never even met a Qunari before you.”

“Well,” Ore struggles to say. “Our lips are sewn together, our hands bound in shackles, and...it’s why I had to leave,” she makes a pathetic attempt at a grin once more. Hacha wants to put her hand to Ore’s mouth to obscure the expression.

“That’s fucking horrible, Ore!” Hacha hisses, and she can’t quite explain the pang of guilt in her stomach. She half expects Ore’s grin to widen to signify it’s all a joke – but this doesn’t happen, and Hacha shivers when the weight of this reality lands on her shoulders. She needs time to reflect on this. Time, and a lot of alcohol.

Hacha sighs, slicking back her greasy hair with one hand, and sits down next to Ore, her back firmly against the wall. She realizes that if they were to be found like this, they would possibly face a lifetime in jail, or worse. But there is something about this, a sense of camaraderie that Hacha doesn’t mind at all.

“You don’t plan on hurting me with that magic of yours, do you?”

“No, Hacha,” Ore says softly, tiredly. Hacha weighs this promise for a few seconds, and then decides that she trusts Ore enough to believe her.

“Then we’re good.” Hacha shifts, and looks at her surroundings once more. “Now, let’s find someone who can get you out of here.”


End file.
